


Educating John

by shutuptom



Series: Educating John [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Codependency, F/M, Gen, John gets frustrated quite a bit, John's unbridled rage, M/M, Master Button-Pusher, Pre-Slash, Sherlock's a wee bit jealous, Texting, and Sherlock knows how to push his buttons, domestics are a dime a dozen with these two, of course Sherlock would get off on John's rage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-14
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:58:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutuptom/pseuds/shutuptom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living with Sherlock Holmes was a never-ending learning experience for Dr. John H. Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Refrigerator

**Author's Note:**

> Helllllooooo, all. This idea kinda popped in my head a while ago but since I'm extremely lazy and love to procrastinate, it got published NOW. Anyway, these are kinda gonna be just tiny little ficlets that revolve around John and how difficult (yet somehow fulfilling) it is to live with Sherlock. You'll quickly realize that I have a very weird writing structure and it'd kinda just a stream of consciousness and there's no definite narrator. You'll also realize how much I love to use commas, dashes, parentheses, and (incorrectly used) semi-colons. It's not Brit-picked at all and I am indeed American, so I think I should apologize for that for some reason. No beta either, so all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Although loosely based on things that happen throughout the episodes, I'll certainly fudge with them enough to make it a bit unrecognizable. (It's them if you squint though, I PROMISE) And although there is no porn yet (the T rating is for a few naughty words, I think), it is very much a priority for me so it's only a matter of time.

He learned to hold his breath and gird his loins before he dared open the refrigerator door.

 

__

Whether it be a severed head in the freezer (What do you mean, 'Why is it in the freezer?' I'm studying common vascular injury patterns in recently decapitated frostbitten victims, _obviously)_ or pointed teeth in a sandwich baggie alongside the emmental and brie in the deli box (Don't tell me you disposed of them; I labeled them as "CLEARLY NOT EDIBLE," and underlined it twice, just like you asked. Those were taken from someone with HED--a disorder which, _by the way_ , affects only 1 in 17,000 people worldwide, _Doctor_ \-- SO DON'T TELL ME YOU GOT RID OF THEM, JOHN), John was always prepared for and fully expecting the worst when it came to one Sherlock Holmes.

There was that one memorable date night where John had planned to impress Sarah with his far beyond average culinary prowess (Along with the clarinet, that was another one of the things he kept off his CV. A guy has to have _some_ secrets, right?) So you could imagine his surprise when he pulled a deceptively fresh head of lettuce from the crisper drawer, only to find a family of Armyworm larvae already feasting on it, thus evoking a high-pitched shriek that had no business coming from anyone over the age of 7, let alone a war-hardened, ex-army doctor. It didn't take a genius to figure out why he was subsequently known as 'Wailing Watson' for the next three and a half months by nearly everyone at St. Bart's (Sarah's doing) and surprisingly enough, both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade (traitors, and undoubtedly Sherlock's doing).

When confronting Sherlock about it the next day, he was met with a furrowed brow, a cold shoulder, and an even sharper tongue.

"I hope you put them back; I had to have them imported from Nebraska. Don't look at me like that, John. Spodoptera frugiperda cells are _commonly_ used in research for the purpose of recombinant protein expression. It's a valid study and I was _bored_. Do you have any idea how hard it is to have to get these through customs _alive?_ The strings I had to pull--I nearly had to cash in a favor with Mycroft, and that alone should speak volumes."

"Sherlock."

Two minutes in to this conversation and John was already pinching the bridge of his nose. Definitely not a good sign of things to come.

"Firstly, in what possible way could data gathered from this experiment be of any relevance to you? The chances of your needing this knowledge about recombin--protein WHATEVER is zero percent. Less than zero percent!"

"Don't be stupid, John. There's no such thing as 'less than zero percent.' There's either some percentage of it happening, or there isn't. 'Less than zero' doesn't exist."

John chose to ignore the overwhelming urge to fit his hands around Sherlock's neck and shake him violently, and instead, soldiered on as if Sherlock hadn't even spoke.

"Secondly, you knew Sarah was coming over last night. I told you about it _two_ weeks in advance so you could make yourself scarce and clear all of this shit--"

"--it's not shit--"

"--off the counters where people normally prepare _food_ , Sherlock. I also told you that far in advance because I know how whenever I bring a date home, you just _conveniently_ have to check on an experiment in the living room that somehow requires you to sigh exasperatedly every time she says something and let humiliating tidbits from my previous relationships slip out."

John's tirade was met with nothing but a short bark of laughter from Sherlock, who just happened to be sprawled out on the couch fiddling with a loose thread hanging from the sleeve of his dressing gown. Turning his head and speaking to John like an adult was apparently too much work for him; Either that, or he was suddenly fascinated by Mrs. Hudson's choice of wallpaper.

Even his body language was pissing John off.

This wasn't good. John went into this clearheaded and he swore on Queen and Country that he was NOT going to let Sherlock upset him again. Sherlock was the one who kept sabotaging his dates. Sherlock was the one that put live insects in the refrigerator and acted like the results of his "experiment" were a matter of national security. Sherlock was the child here, and there was no way in _hell_ that John was going to stomp around like a toddler who was denied a bowl of ice cream before bed.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. What on earth could I possibly gain from humiliating you in front of these painfully dull women you insist on parading through the flat? And by the way, you should be a bit more considerate towards your _flatmate._ The next time you try to 'get off' with one of them--" Oh my god, he actually made the air quotes with his fingers "--could you maybe do it upstairs in your room so I don't have to hear her _lowing_ for an entire forty minutes? It sounded like a cow was being slowly torn apart. I nearly came out of my room simply to put her out of her misery."

Well, that was it. John stomped--actually _stomped_ \-- around as he began pacing in the limited room he had. (Didn't he say this was exactly what he _wouldn't_ do?) He vaguely wondered where his cane was and whether or not his aim was still good enough to knock Sherlock out from across the room. On second thought, that would probably be considered A Bit Not Good, and wasn't that always what he told Sherlock?

"Christ, John. Would you kindly go away now seeing as how you've properly reamed me out and made your point? I need to sleep and seeing how this conversation is clearly not going to change anything, I think it'd be in both our best interests if we were to end it now. Honestly, sometimes you're worse than _Anderson."_

Living with Sherlock, John mastered the art of nodding curtly, clenching his fists, and walking away while trying to swallow down his unbridled rage. He managed to flick the lights off with enough force to worry about whether he broke the switch while slamming the door as loud as humanly possible. He would bring Mrs. Husdon a box of champagne truffles from Harrod's tomorrow; it was the only way she'd forgive him for his atrociously loud behavior.

 

With John already a block and a half away from Baker St., Sherlock lied in the dark with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, and a grin that threatened to split his face in twain.


	2. The Mobile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John really should've opted for unlimited texting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And what feels like a million years later, the second chapter is finally finished. Same as before, this is basically a little ficlet about the struggle that living with Sherlock Holmes presents. It's not Brit-picked and any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> There isn't really a rigid time frame with these stories--it's all wibbly wobbly and manipulated to fit whatever my brain decides is a good idea. This bit takes place after the Pool Incident which probably accounts for Sherlock's extreme co-dependence...or does it?

He learned that he really should’ve opted to spend the extra £10 a month for the unlimited text messaging plan the agent was trying to fob off on him; If only he’d known that Sherlock was putting it lightly when he told him that he preferred to text. Throughout their entire relationship, Sherlock had deigned to call John only once, and that was to tell him to “respond to my bloody text messages before I burn another hole through the table,” after which he promptly hung up, not even giving John the opportunity to make empty threats and stuttering repercussions. So yes, passing up unlimited texting was an oversight on his part.

Within a month of moving in with Sherlock, John learned that he had to turn off his mobile the second he stepped out of 221B Baker Street if he planned on making it through the workday. He had developed something of a routine: He’d make sure the alarm on his mobile was set for 7:00AM before dropping off for the night. Upon waking up, he would hit snooze one to three times depending on what abuse Sherlock had indirectly inflicted upon him the previous night. He would then stumble blindly to the loo where he would shower, brush his teeth, and shave, occasionally daring to do all three at once, which almost always ended in bloodshed. He’d never forget that one morning where he took down half the shower curtain to avoid cracking his head open, all because he was trying to reach his toothbrush on the sink from within the shower.

After efficiently dressing himself, he’d grab his mobile off the nightstand, pocket it, and head downstairs for some tea, toast, and a banana; it was like clockwork, really. John always enjoyed mornings because by the time he’d be heading downstairs for breakfast, Sherlock was usually throwing himself upon his 700 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. When John first found out about them, (and how much they cost) he nearly had an aneurysm. “For someone who considers sleep to be ‘boring, unnecessary, and a complete waste of time,’ you certainly have discriminating taste when it comes to bedclothes.” Sherlock hadn’t even bothered looking up from his laptop to level John with a disgustingly smug grin.

A short tube ride and an eight minute walk would find John at the hospital at approximately 9:00AM, giving him fifteen minutes to regale his fellow doctors and nurses with the previous night’s adventures before having to officially start his shift.

Mondays were always the worst in terms of the number of patients John had to see. The majority of people he tended to were teenagers and twentysomethings who finally sobered up enough to realize that their ankle wasn’t supposed to be twisted in that direction, that fingers weren’t meant to bend that far back, or that getting into a fight with a tree usually involved a few broken metacarpals, bloodied knuckles, and fractured tibias. He was also on first-name-basis with a group of nattering octogenarians that swore up and down that their caretakers were devising new ways to slowly poison them and could he run a few tests while they were here? Just to be sure? Ah, Mondays were grand.

At around 13:30, the mobile that he pointedly ignored in his pocket starts to grow heavier and heavier until it feels like it’ll cement him to the horribly-patterned carpet in his office if he doesn’t check his messages promptly. And by the time lunch rolls around, he practically runs out of the building and sprints to the Tesco on the corner to grab some lunch. After purchasing a prawn and mayo sandwich, a bag of crisps, and a sparkling raspberry Ribena, he crosses the street and hops onto a concrete ledge framing a rather pathetic bed of Lobelia erinus. The fact that he knows what they’re called puts a goofy smile on his face and brings back the memory of the argument that bestowed that knowledge upon him.

***

A while back, he walked in on Sherlock reading what appeared to be a telephone book at first glance, only to discover that it was something called the _CRC World Dictionary of Medicinal and Poisonous Plants._ The fact that the book appeared to weigh as much as Sherlock did was only the half of it; Sherlock had pushed the coffee table flush against the sofa and deposited himself on the floor, lying prone on what appeared to be a makeshift mattress made of sofa cushions. John had lingered mid-stairwell for what felt like hours just watching Sherlock alternate bending his knees and wiggling his toes, almost swaying to music that wasn’t playing. He couldn’t stop the breathless giggle that escaped from behind (mostly) closed lips.

“Something funny?” And god, if looks could kill, John would’ve been struck down dead where he stood.

“Not particularly.” He made his way across the room and unceremoniously plopped down onto the sofa, readjusting the pillow beneath his head and trying to get comfortable. “I just find it a bit bizarre that you’ll spend days reading a tome like _that_ and fill your head with stuff that you’ll probably never need, but you still can’t name the planets in our solar system and you refuse to learn them.”

Sigh.

“What a surprise; we’re talking about the solar system again. You really ought to take some time and fill that tiny, vacuous brain of yours with other useless trivia because there’s only so many times you can bring that up and still feel superior. It was rather boring the first time I heard it, so you can imagine how I feel about it now.”

Left knee bent, left toes _wiggling._ Right knee bent, toes _wiggling._

John felt the overwhelming urge to throw something at Sherlock’s ever-superior head, so he did. Being pillowless was a small price to pay to hear the noise Sherlock had made and the look of surprise on that inexplicably attractive face. “I don’t care how many times I bring it up—the fact remains that it’s primary school stuff and it’s pathetic that you _still_ don’t know it. How is knowing whether a mushroom eight thousand miles away is going to give you violent diarrhea and make you delirious more relevant than the solar system?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, John. You could smarten up and familiarize yourself with local flora. The fact that you’ve spent an overwhelming part of your life here in London and probably can’t even name five plants that are native to London is what’s _truly_ pathetic. How is knowing that planets orbit the sun more practical than knowing that accidental consumption of rhododendron can and will most likely kill you?”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock! I’m just saying—“

“Name five common plants, John.”

“Sherlock, you’re being really child—“

“Five. Common. Plants. _Please_.”

The look on John’s face was enough of a victory for Sherlock. Just once, John wanted to be right. Just once, John wanted to prove to Sherlock that he, too, could make scathing remarks and cutting deductions about people and things, and being completely right in doing so. This clearly wasn’t going to be one of those occasions. Quietly muttering under his breath, John struggled off the sofa, snatched his laptop from the coffee table, and quite literally stomped his way up the stairs. He’d apologize to Mrs. Hudson later.  

“Have fun on Wikipedia, John.” Sherlock’s smile could light up Piccadilly Circus.

***

John plucked the handsomest bloom from its stem and tucked it away safely in his inner jacket pocket. He could practically hear Sherlock muttering about ridiculous sentiment.

Tucking into the first half of his prawn sandwich, he stabbed at the power button and waited for his mobile to boot up. His welcome screen promptly let him know that he had 39 new messages waiting for him.

Thirty. Nine.

He inadvertently grabbed the attention of the closest passersby by nearly choking on the half-chewed bit of sandwich in his mouth and groping blindly for the Ribena he managed to knock over into the flowerbed.

“Fucking hell, Sherlock. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

After wiping the tears from the corner of his eyes and making sure he could breathe properly again, he ventured into his inbox, starting from the earliest message he’d received.

_(08:52 24.03.12) Where have you put the toenails I left in the microwave? I told you last night that I needed them for an experiment this morning. They’re not there. Where are they? SH_

_(08:59 24.03.12) If you threw them away, it’s only fair that I retaliate. I think I’ll do us both a favor and start by testing the significance of accelerants during a fire on that farcical pile of rags that you call a wardrobe. SH_

_(09:09 24.03.12) I’m serious John; where are those toenails? I’ve already started building a pyre and every three minutes that elapse with no response is another jumper on the pile. SH_

_(09:14 24.03.12) Pity, there goes that hideous blue thing that Sarah got you for your birthday last year. SH_

_(09:15 24.03.12) What kind of a man wears polka dots past the age of 7? This is hardly a punishment seeing as how I’m doing you a favor by destroying these. SH_

_(09:16 24.03.12) Maybe you’d be more inclined to respond if Mr. Pickles volunteered to sacrifice himself. SH_

_(09:16 24.03.12) Didn’t think I knew about that, did you? SH_

_(09:18 24.03.12) A number of Buddhist monks used self-immolation to protest discriminatory treatment inflicted upon them by Roman Catholics back in the 1960s. SH_

_(09:18 24.03.12) So setting fire to this ratty, tattered bear(???) won’t really be a hardship, will it. SH_

_(09:19 24.03.12) It stinks. Why do you still have it? SH_

_(09:19 24.03.12) Oh. Of course. Silly me. Sentiment, and all that. SH_

_(09:21 24.03.12) What happened to its face? SH_

_(09:21 24.03.12) Forget the toenails. I think I’ll run a few tests on this atrocity. I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll discover new strands of mutant bacteria if its stench and appearance is anything to go by. SH_

_(09:22 24.03.12) Bring home agar plates. I just contaminated the last two with sneezing brought on by that disgusting, monstrosity of a teddy bear. SH_

_(09:25 24.03.12) John. SH_

_(09:27 24.03.12) JOHN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SH_

_(09:28 24.03.12) It is actually impossible for you to not have noticed these texts. I know for a fact that your phone isn’t dead because I used it early this morning to locate MY phone after you confiscated and hid it last night. SH_

_(09:28 24.03.12) That was very mature, by the way. You know what’s also mature? A 39-year-old ex-military doctor who still owns a teddy bear and polka-dotted jumpers. SH_

_(09:35 24.03.12) This flagrant disregard over my inquiries is rich coming from you, considering how often you reprimand me for ignoring your texts. SH_

_(09:37 24.03.12) “Communication is KEY, Sherlock! How do I know you’re not lying dead in the gutter somewhere,” he said. “You need to always be available,” he said. Sanctimonious codswallop. SH_

_(09:42 24.03.12) By the way, if you’re keeping track—which I doubt considering how unobservant you are-- it’s been thirty-three minutes since I initially mentioned the repercussions about unresponsiveness. SH_

_(09:42 24.03.12) That’s eleven jumpers that I’m allowed to burn. SH_

_(09:43 24.03.12) Don’t think I’ve forgotten about Mr. Pickles, either. SH_

_(09:44 24.03.12) Surely, you don’t think I’m joking. SH_

_(09:45 24.03.12) * 1 new pix message*_

_(09:46 24.03.12) * 2 new pix messages*_

_(09:47 24.03.12) * 3 new pix messages*_

Holding his breath, John opened the multimedia messages. The first picture was of a pile of clothing situated in the middle of the sitting room that John assumed was comprised of his jumpers and what appeared to be a couple of scarves, as well. The second photo was of a box of matches, various chemicals, and unidentifiable liquids which John presumed were the accelerants Sherlock spoke of. Upon opening the third photo, John blinked his eyes rapidly and then kept them shut for what felt like ages—they must’ve been deceiving him. Sherlock appeared to be wearing one of John’s jumpers in it. One of John’s jumpers, no trousers, and his hair pulled back and tied into a pale imitation of a samurai ponytail. To make things even more surreal, he was holding Mr. Pickles in a death grip in his left hand and had taped a scrap of paper to his paw that simply said “HELP ME, JOHN.” God help him, something very bad was happening in John’s stomach upon seeing that. He knew he was kidding himself when he thought he could keep that tiny teddy bear away from Sherlock’s prying eyes.

He’d deal with that later, back to the text messages for now.

_(09:57 24.03.12) I hate you. SH_

_(10:03 24.03.12) Don’t make me terrorize Lestrade just to get in touch with you. If you are alive and in one piece, I am ordering you to respond to my text right now. SH_

_(10:15 24.03.12) Alright, that’s it. I’m calling Lestrade. If you aren’t in fact lying dead in a skip somewhere, you’re going to wish you were once I get a hold of you. SH_

_(10:18 24.03.12) Alright, John? It’s Greg. Is everything OK with you? Sherlock’s going absolutely mental. He seems to think you’ve been kidnapped and loaded with Semtex again, ha ha ha. Shoot me a text when you can to let me know otherwise._

_(10:19 24.03.12) Greg again. Shit, mate, I just realized how inappropriate that was. Fucking hell, sorry about that. Let me buy you a beer to make up for it. Sorry, mate, I don’t know what the fuck came over me._

John quickly shot off a text to Lestrade letting him know that he was okay and that all future outbursts from Sherlock about him should probably be immediately disregarded. He knew Sherlock well enough to know that Lestrade had probably been through hell and back trying to control an insane madman. And if anyone deserved a free pint, it would certainly be him. If felt that as soon as his released the ‘send’ button, his phone vibrated with an incoming text.

_(14:23 24.03.12) I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO FROM NOW ON, KEEP SHERLOCK ON A LEASH AND AWAY FROM HIS TELEPHONE. I HAVE TO CHANGE MY MOBILE NUMBER BECAUSE OF THIS._

Oh god, what had he done now. He hit ‘previous’ and returned to his inbox and picked up where he left off from.

_(10:35 24.03.12) John, it’s Greg again. Sherlock’s sent a text to me every minute, on the minute since I last texted you. Please get in touch with him. It’s a bit busy here and I can’t babysit him like this._

_(10:58 24.03.12) John, Greg again. For the love of all things holy, GET IN TOUCH WITH SHERLOCK._

_(11:11 24.03.12) I’ve called and spoke to the receptionist and she’s told me that you’re alive and well and seeing to patients. I’ve texted the same to Sherlock but he refuses to believe it until he hears from you. CALL HIM. GL_

_(11:33 24.03.12) John, mate, I know you’ve probably done the sensible thing and turned your phone off once you got to work, but I am about 5 mins away from throttling Sherlock. PLEASE TEXT HIM ASAP. GL_

_(11:39 24.03.12) This is the last text you’ll get from me. I’m not dealing with this maniac any longer and I can’t promise you that he won’t end up in a cell for harassing the dept. like this. CALL HIM NOW GL_

Yup. Most definitely dragged through hell and back. He owed him about 10 pints if his texts were anything to go by.

_(13:56 24.03.12) Did I mention that I HATE YOU? Your receptionist is useless and refused to tell me whether or not you were in your office. SH_

_(13:57 24.03.12) She said I sounded unstable and that she wasn’t at liberty to divulge your whereabouts to a “complete and raging nutter.” Fire her; she’s stealing Post-it notes and paperclips. SH_

Thirty nine text messages later and John had finally caught up. He should be angry. Furious, even. According to the timestamp, Sherlock first texted John a mere hour and fifty-two minutes after John initially woke up which was completely and utterly ridiculous. Sherlock was still somehow laboring under the notion that John was his personal assistant, housekeeper, and errand boy all rolled into one. So yes, he should’ve been furious.

Only he wasn’t. Not in the least.

As much as John tried to fight it, he always ended up doing exactly what Sherlock wanted simply because he wanted to. He’d always been a people-pleaser, and after having met Sherlock and realizing how sparingly he meted out praise and recognition, he basically did everything in his power to make sure that he would be on the receiving end of Sherlock’s kind words as often as possible.

He was grinning like a fool as he finally composed a text to Sherlock. It had been about thirty minutes since he’d last heard from Sherlock, so hopefully he hadn’t burnt 221 Baker St. to the ground.

_(14:30 24.03.12) Christ, Sherlock. You really don’t need another person to have a conversation, do you. I was at work…WORKING. J_

_(14:31 24.03.12) What do you think I do here? Sit around in my office all morning waiting for your texts about toenails and accelerants? J_

_(14:32 24.03.12) Now who’s not responding? J_

_(14:35 24.03.12) Also, why are you wearing one of my jumpers? Furthermore, why aren’t you wearing any trousers? J_

_(14:37 24.03.12) Dammit, Sherlock, answer me. After 39 texts the least you can do is answer me. My lunch is almost over and the mobile’s going off the second I’m back in the office. J_

_(14:38 24.03.12) I hate you. You’re rude, selfish, and completely inconsiderate. In short, you’re an arse. SH_

John felt sick with giddiness. Actually sick to his stomach with giddiness (or was it the prawns? Seafood from Tesco was always sketchy). A declaration of hate wasn’t meant to make your insides twist and your cheeks flush, was it. This strange hold that Sherlock had over him only intensified with every insult he threw his way and god almighty, he really _was_ worse than a teenage girl sometimes. Yup, John told himself it was most definitely the prawns.

Buzz.  

_(14:39 24.03.12) I spilled toluene all over myself thanks to you, which is why I’m wearing one of your jumpers. Surely even you could’ve figured that one out. SH_

_(14:40 24.03.12) You owe me £150 for the shirt, by the way, seeing as how it was your fault that it got damaged. SH_

John sloppily stabbed at the keys to compose his reply. His fingers felt like they belonged to someone else and the buttons felt as small as individual pinheads. He couldn’t wipe the smirk off his face if he tried.

_(14:41 24.03.12) I’m going back to work, Sherlock. Don’t burn the flat down in the meantime, OK? Also, forget about the shirt—I’m bringing home Chinese as a peace offering and that’s all you’ll get from me. J_

_(14:42 24.03.12) Don’t forget the crab rangoon this time. And the hot and sour soup. SH_

_(14:42 24.03.12) OK. Turning my phone off now. I’ll see you after work. J_

_(14:43 24.03.12) And the agar plates. SH_

_(14:43 24.03.12) OK, SHERLOCK.REALLY GOING NOW. J_

_(14:43 24.03.12) Goodbye, John._

 

With that, John turned off his phone, wrapped up the remaining half of his sandwich, and slowly walked back towards the hospital feeling ridiculously silly for a 39-year-old man.

Yup, he definitely needed to change his texting plan. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these characters so much and I really wish I wasn't as lazy as I am. Maybe then I would write regularly instead of rushing everything when my fickle muse decides to rear her ugly head. Regardless, I want to thank you guys for reading, leaving kudos, commenting, WHATEVER. Thank you. It's really nice to know that people are actually reading your nonsense. I feel like I DO need to apologize for all the tense-jumping and weird flashbacks--I never claimed to know how to properly write and I'm sticking to that. Thank you guys. Concrit and comments/complaints are always welcome and appreciated :)


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